


The Long Game

by magicmoon111



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: "Ice Preserves", 'What does the Raven want?' is the burning question, Angst, Cause someone has to, Dual POV, Explaining the Long Night, F/M, Murder, Politics, Post-Canon - Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Raven is bad, Reimagining Canon, Resurrection, Tags have changed now that there is a plot, Those hacks wont take Jonerys from me, Tragedy, Violence, after the end, lots of political analysis cause I gotta, maybe an insulting portrayal of some (cough starks cough), season 8 epilogue, trigger warning for intimate partner violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicmoon111/pseuds/magicmoon111
Summary: The Long Game has only just begun.In King's Landing, an ageless preditor watches with a thousand eyes, his patience never-ending and his goals never-faltering.Imprisoned in the Land of Winter, a stolen queen sleeps, and a monster rages.Beyond the Wall, a banished king haunts the forests with a Ghost by his side, waiting for ten years to pass.Heedless of the coming night, the games of men continue.******This is my anti-fix-it-fic that has evolved into a sorta-fix-it-fic that also analyzes how stupid GoT was. Also known as "that one fic in which Moon tackles the plot-craters." (Spoiler: there aremany.) The tags have been updated. Enjoy.(PS: No, I have not abandoned HLHD, but it's been slow going cause characters have complicated emotions. And that sucks, lol.)





	1. Said the Raven

The Raven liked to go back to that moment every now and then, to watch it all play out over and over. To breath in his victory.

_The scene started with a lie from the realm’s most honorable man, and ended with a whimper from the realms most terrible woman. The throne room was the setting, with its ash covered dreams, and the actors a man and a woman. It was the oldest drama in history, one of love and betrayal._

_With a kiss to mark the end._

_The woman’s wet gasp was almost soundless, her withered chest impaled by his hero’s blade. Her face twisted in thrice cursed anguish._

_The hands she’d clutched her lover with slowly lost all strength. Her body, so small and frail, collapsed. Jon crashed onto floor with her in his arms._

_He’d finally bent the knee, this would-be hero._

_And taken her down with him._

_Tears began to trail down her ashen face as blood spilled from her torn flesh. Blood and tears, contemplated the Raven—the body and the soul. In the bitterest of deaths, when one shed both, that agony was carried into the afterlife._

_And so the scion of fire became the perfect vessel. In life she’d known only pain, and in death it would be her weapon._

_Perhaps the man who’d touched the veil could feel what he’d done, for Jon pitched himself forward and began to shake his head, his soundless sobs falling amidst the ash. He was bent almost as if in supplication, a worshiper before a fallen god._

_He was mourning a fate sealed in blood._

_By the time the last dragon landed in the ruined room, an eon and a half later, he could sob no longer. Jon lowered his lover to the floor and pushed to his feet as if in a dream, turning to his monstrous cousin. Fear war_ _red with something else as man and beast stared each other down._

 _The_ _Raven wondered what Jon felt as he watched the great beast approach the corpse and nudge his mother’s still form. When she didn’t move, when her cold body remained still, he nudged her again, harder, as if that would fill the empty spot she’s once inhabited. What did Jon feel as he heard this great monster’s tiny whine of denial—to know this beast too was a lonely child._

_They shared that, these two. But while Jon could live on to take comfort in his family, perhaps could even find love again one day…the dragon could not. His only mate was at the bottom of the Blackwater._

_Drogon threw his head back and screeched to the heavens, his cry a mourning wail. He’d lost two siblings and a mother, and he was now truly alone. The last of his kind._

_The humans had taken everything from him._

_He screeched again, more terrible still, and whipped his head in grief-stricken frenzy. The breast turned towards the man; his rage demonic. Terrifying teeth parted, revealing the inferno within._

_And Jon’s face smoothed into acceptance._

_But he couldn’t die here, couldn’t die yet, and so the Raven stuck, once more turning the great beast’s fire away._

_When the inferno ended, the_ _kinslayer raised his head in time to see the dragon gather his mother’s body in one clawed foot and launch himself into the air. With one beat of powerful wings, the orphan was gone._

_And the Raven watched._

“Your Grace?”

The Raven blinked, returning to his small host’s body, and turned his head to see his Imp standing there with his habitual worried face.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

The Raven stared, not understanding. “Why would I not be?”

Tyrion furrowed his brow, lips pulling down into a deeper frown. “Brandon, you’re…crying.”

The Raven’s blink was a slow thing. He raised a hand and touched his cheek, realizing it was wet. He pulled his fingers back, studying this moisture with distant interest.

“So I am.”

_Brandon Stark. So you’re still hanging on._

He wiped the tears away with a careless hand.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion began, stepping closer. “We haven’t really spoken since that eve in Winterfell, before the Great War. I know you took the throne to bring peace, that you’ve accepted playing the role while the council rules in your stead.”

The Raven only waited, and the pause grew awkwardly long.

“I know you’ve given up so much over these last two years,” Tyrion continued, “and with Queen Sansa overseeing the rebuilding of the North, and Lady Arya gods know where, and Jon disappearing Beyond the Wall—”

“He’s with the wildlings,” said the Raven. “As he should be.”

Tyrion paused, then exhaled with a relieved sake of his head, “Good, that’s—that’s good. He deserves some happiness—more than any of us.”

_Jon will get what he deserves._

“But as I was saying, they’re all very far away. Now, I’m no expert on healthy families,” Tyrion smiled, wry, “but I’ve had my share of longing for one. You must miss them very much.”

“That’s not it,” the Raven said. “I’ve told you. I don’t want those things anymore.”

Tyrion flicked his gaze uncertainly between the Raven’s eyes, the moment stretching. He finally nodded and walked over to the table, pulling out a chair with a screech and positioning it beside the wheel chair.  He hopped up with a jovial smile.

“Well, either way, even someone like you must want to talk every now and then. And what else is a Hand for?”

“To act in my stead,” said the Raven, unironically. “To bring my vision to fruition. You’ve been truly… invaluable to me.”

Tyrion’s sucked in a shallow breath, looking away quickly. “Well a fifty-fifty success rate isn’t too bad,” he quipped, clearing his throat. He’d live the rest of his life regretting his loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen, although it was his betrayal that the world would rue.

“Come then,” the Hand continued, his jovial smile now strained. “Even the three eyed Raven must have his own concerns. Perhaps you’ve, ah, _seen_ something that disturbed you?”

Tyrion reached over and placed a comforting hand on the Raven’s arm, squeezing briefly. The Raven stared at that hand until Tyrion cleared his throat and pulled away. He looked down into that mournful face, his guilt so deep it was a wonder he hadn’t drowned.

“Well, if nothing else, I love a good tale, and I’d be hard pressed to find a better storyteller.”

“Storyteller.” The Raven folded his hands over his useless legs, contemplating. “Yes.”

_Yes, that’s what I am. The god of games and memories._

“Once,” The Raven began on a whim, looking back over the city. “There were two brothers. Two sides of a coin, you could say. One was the light, was life itself, and they loved him for it. Worshiped him.” A slow exhale. “While the Other—the elder—was known as the original ill omen. Men dared not even evoke his name.” A thin smile. “As you can imagine, the elder was not very…pleased with this reality.”

“I need not imagine,” Tyrion dryly said, leaning back and settling in. “I’ve my own experience with this tale. Although, I was the younger, between Jaime and I.”

“But you loved him,” said the Raven. “And he, you. _These_ brothers did not feel any such sentiment for one another. They could no more change this truth than they could change their nature. The people around them only sowed this discord, feeding the gap with envy and fear to better make use of them.”

“And it sparked a tragedy.”

It was not a question, but the Raven nodded anyway. “Yes. A tragedy. One day, the elder brother came across a bitter supplicant who knew well what it meant to be overshadowed. This young man’s sister had been named their father’s heir, for she was clever, bright, and more beloved than he. And oh, did this burn him, to be so dismissed. He swore to tear her down and claim what was rightfully his. The elder brother, sympathetic of the man’s woe, decided to aid him.”

Tyrion tapped the arms of his chair, a nervous tick. “This isn’t the story of the Dance of Dragons, is it? Granted, Old King Viserys caused a stir when he named Princess Rhaenyra his heir, but I’ve no knowledge of a wildly despised man that decreed for the Greens.”

“No,” said the Raven. “This is a story much older than that. It happened eons before a dragon’s shadow ever darkened the mountains of Valyria.”

Tyrion quirked a brow. “You’ve been busy.”

_There’s not much else to do but wait._

The Raven continued with a slight smile. “The elder didn’t care about the chaos he would bring, for he’d grown to hate the girl as much as her brother did, if not more. She was another symbol of everything he loathed—but one he could tear down and punish.”

“Charming.”

The Raven turned his head, expression bland, but Tyrion still shifted in unease. Everyone did, when the Raven gave them his full attention. “It didn’t take very much, in the end, and they wrote their betrayal in blood. But this was only the beginning, because what the Elder didn’t know was that this same girl was the one the Younger had grown infatuated with. Because of course he was. Any game one started, the other was no doubt already playing.”

“Fate,” Tyrion said with an odd note. “Not a concept I much like.”

“Nor I,” agreed the Raven, thinking of all he’d done to get here. “When his participation was eventually discovered, the Younger accused the Elder of knowingly conspiring against him. It was not true, but it didn’t matter—the girl’s death was the spark they’d long been awaiting. Over her corpse they waged war and tore down the sky.”

He did not turn to see the Imp’s reaction, but Tyrion’s voice was oddly strained when he asked, “Do I know these two? Is there some book you could direct me towards?”

“No.”

There was a paused beat, in which Tyrion no doubt waited for elaboration, before he exhaled heavily. “So who won? Or shall I guess?”

The Raven turned, interest stirring. “And who would you name victor?”

“Since this has the tone of a tragedy, I’d guess the elder brother won.” A bitter shake of his head. “History is riddled with the victories of tyrants. Our story was the lucky one.”

The Raven clenched his hands tight under his shawl, nails piecing deep, but betrayed nothing on his face. “Tyrant. You judge him very quickly, my lord Hand.”

_But it suits you, to look upon history and paint it with your own bias._

“He murdered an innocent girl because he saw his brother in her. All because he let the opinions of others poison him,” Tyrion spat. “He was a fool.”

The Raven’s fingers were bleached white, while his face was frozen in placidity. He turned to Tyrion, his voice carefully indifferent as he deliberately quoted, “‘ _I wish I was the monster you think I am._ ’” Tyrion froze. “‘ _I wish I had enough poison for the whole pack of you. I would gladly give my life…to watch you all swallow it._ ”’

Tyrion’s hands shook where he’d gripped the arms of the chair.

“I’ve watched your trial, my lord. Over and over and over. Do you remember what you felt in that moment?”

“That was different,” Tyrion said, near soundless.

“They didn’t _appreciate_ you,” the Raven spoke with a certain irony. “You saved their _worthless lives_ …but they were not grateful. It did not win you their love, nor their respect.” The Raven’s lips tipped up in a humorless smile. “Rather, they dismissed your good deeds, mocked your ambitions, and called you evil. Your own family was so disloyal that it nearly drove you… mad _._ ”

Tyrion flinched so hard he slammed back against the chair, his face bone white. “I didn’t kill them. I _didn’t._ ”

The Raven paused a beat, eyes still lost in the horizon. “No, you didn’t have the power to do it.” He ignored Tyrion’s painful inhale and continued, careless, “The Elder brother did, however—he had more power than he knew what to do with. He could sway any man to his way of thinking, could twist lie into truth, dreams into nightmares, craft memories from… stories.”

Tyrion slid off the chair to make his way over to the table, with its pitcher of wine. The Hand had not taken a single drink since Bran had been crowned, but now he filled his glass to brimming without hesitation. He drowned half of it before filling it once more, his back still turned away.

The Raven loved these moments, loved digging up one’s most painful memory and stripping it of emotion, of _weight_ , as he it spoke it aloud. Knowing they could not blame him, because he was different, because he was _above_ such human weakness.

Wanting was evil. Rage was to be swallowed. Desire was disgusting. And vengeance was the prelude to madness.

Such pretty lessons, these humans had taught themselves. Such discomfort with ugliness. They would never cease to amuse him, these creatures that had elevated him with kingship because he didn’t _care_.

“I came to appraise you with this month’s report. The sewers have been built,” Tyrion said, all business now. “And the city’s foundation is all but done. The masons tell me we can start constructing the houses by the new moon, and the people will be grateful for the work. Soon the Reach will have its first winter harvest and we can cut back on rationing.  It has been a difficult couple of years, but things are looking up. I’ll have the council’s full report ready by week’s end.”

They both knew he wouldn’t read it, but the Raven nodded anyway, staring out at the ruins beyond the balcony rail. One dragon was capable of such thorough destruction. What could an army of them do?

“Thank you for your hard work, my lord.”

Tyrion only bobbed his head, but his face was troubled. “Your Grace, are you sure that all is well in the North? I know it’s foolish of me to doubt you, but no Raven has arrived in weeks now.”

“All is well,” said the Raven. “Why do you ask?”

Tyrion exhaled with a shake of his head. “Just something Bronn mentioned. Her Grace hasn’t responded to the Reach’s offer of food. I’m worried about their stores, and Winter has only begun. The Riverlands are in no state to supply them this time, and while it will be tight with only the Reach’s produce, we can spare some in the name of peaceful coexistence.” 

“The North is independent now, my lord,” Bran said, dispassionate. “Sansa is fully capable of making her own choices. She wouldn’t let her people starve. When she has a need, she’ll reach out.”

Tyrion worked his jaw for a moment before giving a laugh. “Yes, of course. She’d no doubt glare at me for insinuating otherwise.”

“My sister has learned not to forgive a slight,” said the Raven, near soundless. “I did not even have to sway her.”

“Is there anything else you may have seen?” Tyrion continued, heedless. “We still have not had any luck with finding a Master of Whispers, as you know.”

Tyrion was purposefully stalling on finding one, because the Raven had convinced them all that one wasn’t needed. Because the Raven could see everything, could predict the picture because he had all the pieces. No one would ever have privacy again, as long as he ruled.

This was the freedom they chose.

_A few lords in the North are chafing at serving a queen, when Ned Stark’s trueborn son is on the throne. As soon as I marry and reveal that being a cripple does not take away my ability to sire children, more and more of them will wonder why their queen who refuses to wed pushed for independence at all. Their food stories will run dry within the year, and when Sansa fails to procure more, the people will turn on her._

_The Iron Islands have rebuilt much of their fleet. Euron crippled their economy when he built his thousand ships, and they’ve had no choice but to return to pirating. With the Dragon Queen dead, Yara Greyjoy hasn't been shy about returning to the Iron Price. Men, women, and children all live abroad their boats now, and under Yara_ _’s lead dozens of merchant ships have already been sacrificed to the Drowned God. This has destabilized the Essosi’s willingness to trade with Westeros, and as more ships are lost, fewer will sail. Soon, the Iron Islands will push for independence, since I_ _’ve set a dangerous precedent when I gave my sister a kingdom._

_In the Reach, the Hightowers and Redwyns are heading a conspiracy against their new lord, Bronn of the Blackwater, now that the kingdoms have had enough time to heal from the long wars. Whispers are spreading about why they should bow to a powerless foreign king, let along fund the rebuilding of his capital._

_A few houses in the Stormlands feel the same, and many are beginning to openly disobey Gendry, who they see as an uneducated bastard with a flimsy claim, who was only accepted by Stannis’s remaining loyalists due to Ser Davos’s word and a weariness to war. Without the Dragon Queen enforcing her decree, and with the current king having no army to speak of, they wonder why they should obey the Iron Throne at all come Summer._

_Dorne is stirring as well, but waiting for the other kingdoms make their moves, they’ll stop paying taxes and declare their independence. They’re waiting to see which way the wind blows, and if this new king can keep his throne. If he can, they’re already seeding treacherous methods to ensure that Brandon’s heir is one of them, even if they have to go to great lengths to eliminate all other obstacles._

_In this last point, all the kingdoms would agree. Without a clear line of succession, the throne is up for grabs as soon as Brandon dies, and they all are more than willing to play. It has kept them complacent so far, but as soon as an heir is born, they’ll not be quiet for long. The old game will seem tame in comparison to what erupts when it comes time for Brandon to chose an heir._

_In Essos, news of the Mhysa’s murder has reached the Bay of Dragons,_ _where all_ _decried the tales of her madness to be lies and slander. In the three years since she left, the educated former slaves have taken control of their council and keep the peace with a centralized army of former slaves—all trained by Daario Naharis. After the Bay successfully helped fund the slave uprising in Volantis, which is most powerful of the Free Cities, the Iron Bank decided to invest in their endeavor. They now have set their collective sights on Myr. While slavery is a profitable business, the Bank knows a losing bet when they see one._

_Masters across the continent are being murdered in increasing numbers, a crusade headed by Kinvara, the High Priestess of R’hllor, who has taken control of Volantis after the masters were executed. She has declared that slavery is against the teachings of the Red God and ordered all Red Temples to free their slaves at once. In the name of the Dragon Queen who ended the Great Other, the common people must band together and free themselves from tyranny. If the Free Cities become free in truth, then the Red Priests will be the ones in power, and they’ll likely declare a trade embargo on Westeros on grounds of irrecoverable religious differences._

_Daario Naharis has sworn vengeance against the Usurper Brandon the Broken and declared how he would sting him and the traitorous Tyrion Lannister up by their entails. Darrio and his newly renamed mercenary company, the Dragon’s Sons, plan to soon make their way west. Their numbers increase daily, fed with former slaves who have pledged their swords to their martyred Mhysa._

“No, my lord,” said the Raven. “No news. Now, if there’s nothing else, I think I’ll spend some time in the Summer Isles. Did you know they have fascinating festivals for the dead?”

Tyrion's smile was kind, if a shade patronizing. “Of course, Your Grace. Enjoy.”

“I always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MariDark recommends you listen to this chapter with this [Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1frgt0D_f4), which she says it makes it even more ominous.
> 
> Well, the only end note I have otherwise is this won't have a happy ending, but it will be the ending this bitter fan thinks they deserve.


	2. Dreamt the Hand

Many years ago, a young boy’s manhood was sacrificed to the flames. As he lay there bleeding, his consciousness fading away, he witnessed the fire grow and _morph._ Pillars of emerald and sapphire rose to the heavens at the vile sorcerer's command, chilling to the eye and the skin. The chanting grew feverish— _lustful!_ —and so loud the boy thought his eardrums would burst.

He didn’t realize until much later that it had not been the sorcerer’s voice.

That night, his blood spilling down the altar, the boy gazed desperately into the fire… and the fire gazed back. It looked at him, and through him, and inside him. It crawled into his every crevice, bathed in every drop of blood, and violating him more surely than any mere mortal ever could.

_Well hello there, little bird. My, what a surprise, what a surprise. Say, will you treat with me? Will you offer me a sweet gift, a small boon? Just promise to guard your tongue and preserve your voice, and you’ll wake up whole and hale. Say yes, little bird, say yes—lend me your voice, and I will lend you your life._

_Say_ yes _._

When the boy awoke amongst ravenous gutter rats that had not dared touch one inch of pale flesh, he remembered every moment of the ritual, he remembered that voice, and he remembered what it was like to be violated into the depths of his soul. He lay there, his body clutched in whithered arms, chilled to the bone.

It was not many years later, on the eve of his burning death, that the grown little bird finally remembered what the voice had whispered. He understood, finally who was the puppet—and who the puppeteer.

By then, it was too late.

~~~

His Hand has been staring at the same page for nearly ten minutes now, some ancient text about city planning written by a man long since turned to dust. The deep furrow in Tyrion brow and his faraway gaze spoke of a mind otherwise occupied. The Raven could sense the turmoil of those he’d bonded to, and he hadn’t felt Tyrion’s discontent so strongly in years. It had drawn him from his chosen path to the Hand’s tower, deciding the interlude to be worth his time. He walked into a quaint little scene of two men hard at work, their tasks both of paramount importance.

 “Do you _have_ to keep doing that?” the Hand snapped, jerking his eyes from the book.

Bronn was reclined on a chaise, one leg thrown jauntily over the other, and was sharpening his trusty knife. The whetstone made a distinctive sound as if passed down the steel. "Never know when you’ll need a sharp blade."

“You’re the Lord of Highgarden currently staying in the Hand’s heavily guarded tower—a blade is the _last_ thing you need.”

“That so?” he tsked. “You’ve changed, m’lord: You used to be clever.”

The Hand flinched back, eyes widening. The Raven’s eyes locked on that overblow reaction and he drifted closer.

"I…I'm trying to _read_ , Bronn.” Tyrion returned weakly. “As you should at least pretend to do."

The supposed Master of Coin tsked. "Why bother, when you’re just going do it for me? We both know I’m only here ‘cause you can’t give yourself both titles."

Tryon was taken aback. “That’s…not true.”

“Ain’t it?” The whetstone continued uninterrupted. “Cause here I am, the Master of Coin with me very own kingdom to run. How else would I get all the bloody way up here, that's what I want to know?"

The Raven drew closer, intrigued. He hadn’t paid much attention to _this_ member of his council, viewing the man to be, at best, the pawn of a pawn. The Raven stepped away from the door and walked past Bronn, who shivered and looked towards the bolted window. After a moment, he went back to his blade, the motions a tad slower.

"That was the deal, remember—when you pointed a _crossbow_ at me.”

The _shink, shink, shink_ of the whetstone never faltered. “Hmm.”

Tyrion studied him, realization slowly dawning. “You’re _unsatisfied_.”

Bronn gave a small shrug, inspecting the blade’s edge before resuming his labour.

“You can't possibly want more."

"A man always wants more." Bronn’s crooked smile belied his sober gaze. "Doesn't mean he should get it. Sometimes, I think I should’ve said ‘fuck off’ to your brother and his bloody Dorne quest. Just stayed put and married Lollys Stokeworth. Remember her? Old Lollys made me wear a bloody cape and wouldn’t stop talking about what pies to serve at our wedding. She wasn’t the brightest chit, but pretty enough and with only a barren sister standing between her and a castle. If I’d married her, I’d have been fat by now, spending me nights at a brothel to avoid a nagging wife and monstrous brats." He snorted, hollow. “Instead, I got _you_ —and this knife.”

The Raven went up to the stuffed bookshelves, perusing the titles. Fantastical stories, dreary records, biased historical dribble. He turned and leaned back against the tomes, the small creak of wood going unheard by the two occupants.

“Do you want to get married, Bronn?” Tyrion suggested, brows furrowed. “I can arrange it: Highgarden _does_ need an heir.”

Bronn gave a bark of laughter. “I’ll get me my own wife, Lannister. I’m done with your family’s _promises._ ”

Tyrion watched him for a moment, puzzled, before he forced his attention back to his tome. But still he did not read, and the turmoil only churned under his placid surface. The Raven drifted along the wall, trailing his hands on the books, but the silence stretched. The Raven could not read minds, and it seemed his Hand had no intention to voice his thought. Just when he was about to turn away for good, Bronn spoke up again, asking, “So what’s got you all distracted?"

“What?”

A snort. “You haven’t shared any ‘fascinating’ details from that boring book of yours in ages, _m’lord_. What’s going on in that shrinking brain of yours?”

Tyrion only muttered something unflattering under his breath since he’d long since given up trying to teach the other man some manners. “It’s nothing. Just…an old night terror.”

“Don’t sound like nothing.”

A long, contemplative silence.

Tyrion began tapping his fingers on the open tome, seemingly struggling to begin. Finally, he said, “You were a sellsword.”

Bronn looked up, quirking a sardonic brow. “Was I?”

“I _meant_ ,” he snapped, “That, as a sellsword, you’ve no doubt encountered your share of—of frightening situations. Do you think the same mechanism that evokes fear of _tangible_ things also produces—irrational fears? Something we know we _shouldn’t_ be afraid of, but that still evokes a sense of—of dread. Something like—” Tyrion broke off, seemingly struggling.

“Gods, what am I saying?” he shook his head. “You know what, never mind. I’ve too much work to do.”

"Spiders," Bronn said. Tyrion looked up. "I know they can’t do anything to me, but I got stuck in a cellar once and now I can’t stand the sight of the buggers.” A joyless laugh. “And dirty hands, maybe."

"Dirty. Hands."

“You said irrational, didn’t you?” Bronn wiggled his fingers. “Well, ain’t anything rational about that.”

Tyrion, apparently thinking he was being mocked, sighed. “Can’t you ever be serious?”

Bronn snorted, returning to his whetstone. "I’m serious more often than I want to be, these days. So—night terror? What’re you scared of, Imp?”

A long, quiet silence, then in a hushed exhale. “Daenerys Targaryen.”

The room seemed to chill suddenly, the words invoking a phantom. The whetstone stumbled, glancing off the blade. Bronn cleared his throat, eyeing the Hand.

“Well…wouldn’t say that’s an _irrational_ fear. These days, saying her name is like invoking the Stranger.”

And no sane man dared do that.

Tyrion only slumped, looking old and tired. He licked his lips and looked to the window, bolted tightly. “I thought—Varys and I—we thought a bit of fear was necessary. Growing up as Tywin Lannister’s son, I understood why it was important to be feared, but she—she was _loved_ as well. Gods Bronn, I’ve been a cynic all my life, so in Meereen, when I witnessed her people kneel and wait for her return, never once doubting she would… I thought their faith in her was _absurd._ ”

His voice grew louder, more agitated: as if some dam had finally burst. “But then the war came, and when all my negotiations failed and the city went under siege, I found myself doing the same. ‘Hoping.’ _Waiting_ for this goddess they all so _worshipped_ , waiting for her to save us all.” He looked to the bookshelves, and for a moment, his unknowingly met the Raven’s gaze. “And then, there she was—the first dragon rider in a hundred and fifty _years_ , and seeing her in the sky…I never wanted to look away. She took her three dragons and burned just one ship, just _one_ … and hardened sellswords and mercenaries and soldiers threw down their swords. The Bay was hers.”

“No sane man wants to bet his luck against a dragon.”

Tyrion continued as if Bronn hadn’t spoken. “Then she named me her Hand, and it felt like I finally had found something to live for. Some great _ideal_. I began to believe in this ‘better world’ she envisioned!”

“I—I believe in it. I believed…” Tyrion wilted with jarring suddenness; a flower crushed under an uncaring boot. “Not so clever after all, am I?”

Bronn studied the slumped man, and finally sheathed his dagger. He pushed up and leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his spread needs. “So, you wanted to fuck her and couldn’t see the crazy underneath. What’s irrational about that? She did burn down the whole city, and that monster of hers is still out there somewhere.”

Tyrion only stared at him, a defeated look on his face. “I dreamt of those slave masters that she’d crucified, all one hundred and sixty-three of them.” The words were clipped. “I saw it as if I were there. I _felt_ the pikes being driven into my limbs, watched Daenerys stand before me as she gave the order to her legion of worshipers. On either side of me were highborn and lowborn alike, hundreds of them, _thousands_ —all of Westeros, strung up on a burning cross.” He shivered, face pale. “It’s an old dream, one I haven’t had in…years. It’s haunted me ever since we docked at Dragonstone—perhaps when I began to realize what a conquest _really_ was. Of course, she hadn’t done anything _yet_ … but perhaps Varys saw it too because he began speaking of newfound doubts, urging me to control her, speaking of how it would all be lost if I couldn’t. But I _failed;_ I could do nothing but watch as she executed the Tarlys, as burned them _alive._ And I saw what the future held for _everyone_. Bronn…how could she have done it? How?”

In answer, Bronn merely raising a cynical brow, not bothering to argue against Tyrion’s queerly pacifist mentality. Perhaps the sellsword figured that some bad Essosi wine had rotted the Hand’s brain, because since returning to Westeros, Tyrion Lannister had developed a clouded, deluded view of reality. Case in point, how he remembered Cersei as a tragic little girl instead of the woman she’d become: a butcher reigning over a mountain of corpses.

Claimless Cersei Lannister had usurped the Iron Throne by accomplishing what the Mad King himself had not. She’d set fire to her own city and murdered hundreds of highborn and lowborn alike—amongst them, a High Septon, the true Queen, and (in an echo of the Mad King) a Lord Paramount and his heir. She had irrecoverably broken the feudal contract, thus freeing the Reach from any obligations to the Iron Throne.

On principle alone, the lords of the Reach should have unanimously wanted Cersei dead. Instead, ‘ _honourable’_ Randyll Tarly had chosen to bow before her. In her name he had butchered and looted thousands of his own countrymen, a genocide Bronn of the Blackwater had been himself a part of.

(Too bad Tyrion Lannister had not been shown _that_ part of the story. Maybe then he would not shown so much pity for a traitor.)

Yet, in spite of Randyll’s betrayal, Daenerys Targaryen had offered to pardon him of it if only he’d bent his _very bendable_ knee. Randyll had rejected her offer, rejected the Wall, and all but demanded to die. He hadn’t even changed his mind to save his _own_ _son’s_ life.

And what was a monarch that did not keep her word? What was a crime, if there was no punishment?

Privately, the Raven though the Dragon Queen should have spared Dickon Tarly. She should have had the boy tortured for a few months. Broken him in body and spirit until he bent the knee our of pure torment.

 _That_ would have been a good message to any other upstart lordlings.

Of course, between the three souls in this room, only Tyrion Lannister had forgotten the rules of their world.

“I know—I _know_ it was a war,” Tyrion defended, to which Bronn only snorted. “I do! I _know_ that the dozens of kings and queens that came before her would not have shown even a _hint_ of the mercy that she offered. I know that she didn’t attack the city when she could have, even though it would have fallen with barely any casualties. I even know that chose to turn her armies north in the war against the dead!”

The Raven hadn’t been so entertained in years. Bronn did not share his sentiment.

“Don’t look at me like that, Bronn! I _do_ know that her actions weren’t all that irregular, I do, but…” A weary laugh. “ _But_. But I was scared _anyway_. Why? Why was I? And I’m not being rhetorical right now, Bronn, so can you tell me _why_?”

They held gazes, but the swellsord had no answer, only cautiously eyeing the Hand. Tyrion looked old and tied when he finally looked away, the lines on his face more pronounced.

“No? Well, that’s no surprise, since _I_ didn’t even realize the truth of it myself until Sansa Stark looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’re afraid of her.’ _Yes_ , I realized then, I _was_. Even after she brought her army to the North, even after she pledged herself to fight the dead, even though I _knew_ of all she’d lost and that grief is _natural_ … despite all that, whenever I looked at my _queen_ , all I felt was _fear._ ” He looked up, eyes glassy, clutching his head, “But I don’t know _why_.”

The ensuing silence was so heavy that sound almost dared not pierce it.

The Raven smiled. Tyrion Lannister was indeed a clever man. How unfortunate that unbridled emotion had a way of dulling even the brightest of minds.

“Well,” Bronn eventually hedged. “She _did_ end up being madder than her father. Sometimes, the gut can see things the eyes can’t.”

If anything, the words only succeeded in making the Hand of the King more miserable. “Well, it would be nice if my gut told me what it saw, Bronn. What did it see in her that I _missed_?”

 _What if I miss it again?_ The question, unspoken, was loud.

The Raven pushed away from the shelf and walked behind Tyrion’s chair, close enough to touch, and saw the man shudder. The Imp twisted around, pallid, and scanned the barren room. The Raven was tempted to reach out a long, limp hand and brush his Hand’s cheek—a mocking facsimile of comfort. But that would have been too much, even for him.

So instead, he turned North and took flight, the smile never leaving his face. What an amusing interlude. Now, onward to business.

_Time to check on sleeping beauty._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HLHD is coming, so please don't ask about it in the comments. 
> 
> Instead, ten points to anyone who can guess wtf is going on here, lol. I'm having more fun with the Raven than is healthy. 
> 
> Dedicated to [Lindsay Ellis's GoT analysis](https://youtu.be/BGr0NRx3TKU), which was so good and so cathartic.


	3. Asked the Maester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop, this update speed reminds me of ye-old-2017. 
> 
> NOTE: The first half of this is basically all political analysis. I had a lot of holes to fill and it ended up being _long_. Basically, it details what I think the kingdoms and Houses have been up to these last two years. But, I know some people may not care or find it boring, and you won't miss anything from the main plot if you decide to skip it. If you want, you can just start reading at:  
> [“Enter,” he said, in response to the timid knock at his door.]
> 
> Enjoy :)

The Raven spent most of his time awing, soaring over sand and sea and stone, watching with a thousand eyes and one. Underneath him, men continued to scurry about like bugs, scampering after rewards and curling up to avoid risks, all the while blind of the giant upon whose palm they crawled. The Raven mostly left them to it, having always preferred to watch and listen.

In the landmasses that men had named, a lot had changed, and yet nothing at all.

In King’s Landing, the Inner Keep was now built of pale ivory stone and named Brandon’s Holdfast. It was the third thing that had been rebuilt, following the outer walls of the castle and the decimated City Gate. The Hand’s Tower had followed the trio, and then the Small Council chamber had come next. Luckily, the city did not lack for thousands of starving, homeless mouths in need of work, and so the construction was fairly quick.

All the crown could afford to pay them with was a third of an ear of corn, and a bowl of heavily watered-down broth. The food was bought with what was left of the Tyrell gold, which had been looted from the Reach and was soaked in the blood of six thousand innocent souls. The Master of Coin had been quick to claim it all, arguing that it was technically under his preview, while doubly being ill-begotten gains from his new House. In the interest of harmony between the kingdoms, Tyrion had allowed it.

To Bronn’s credit, he was mostly using it according to the Hand’s wishes. Namely, to pay the wages of their six hundred and forty remaining soldiers, and more importantly to import food from Essos. The second matter was much more complicated than the first, since a bushel of imported corn was currently worth ten times its usual price. As such, the royal coffers were only able to feed the population of the city and small parts of nearby crownlands.

Tyrion, who was now lord of the Westerlands, had been stunned to discover that the Lannister mines were dry. The only income he now had were what was taxed from his exhausted lords and what trade was done in Lannisport. Tyrion was not destitute by any means, but he was certainly no longer wealthy enough to shoulder the realm during the _Summer_ , let alone Winter. It was a dark fate for a man whose first solution to a problem was to reach for his purse.

And this current problem was the famine that was ravaging the kingdoms.

They were in desperate straits, and during the first months of Brandon’s reign, they’d focused their efforts on borrowing coin…a task easier to speak of than accomplish. First, they’d been politely denied by the majority of the wealthy Westerosi lords, who citied the purchasing of food for their _own_ lands to be of paramount importance. Those that had not refused lent barley enough coin to purchase food for a month, let along the next few years.

Next, they’d turned to the Faith, to whom the crown already owed a great deal, but the new High Septon—a highly devout man who’d been chosen after months of deliberation by a council of Seven—had _vehemently_ refused. He’d called it a _blasphemy_ to accept a queer worshiper of the Old Gods—who’d pointedly _refused_ to convert to the Light of the Seven—as king of Westeros. Not to mention associating with his treasonous Lannister Hand, who bore the taint of kingslayer _and_ kinslayer!

_“Madness! Madness and stupidity!” the High Septon spat, pacing with a maniac energy in full view of dozens of worshipers. They were in the Starry Sept of Old Town, which was now the official seat of the High Septon. He waved his sceptre about, clutching it his fleshy fingers, with his face flushed red in rage. “A blight has befallen our Holy Land. A blight, I say! Men look with clouded eyes and hear with deaf ears! Land is sky and night is day! The gods have cursed us and we must repent! Kneel, all of you! Kneel and beg forgiveness for the sins of our countrymen!”_

Thus rejected in Westeros, the new king and his council had sought aid from foreign lands. Unfortunately, the Tyroshi cartels—known to be prolific lenders—to whom they first turned had crassly and violently refused. They'd sent their messenger back in pieces, the written refusal carved into his torso. Tyrion had been appalled to learned that this wasn’t the crown's  _first_ such message: the cartels had lent plenty to Westeros back during Robert Baratheon’s reign, but during the War of Five King, the crown reneged on all their debts. To date, it had been over four years since the cartels had seen even a penny of what they were owed. Instead of finding a solution in Tyrosh, Tyrion had only learnt one more problem, although thankfully one that would wait until Summer before seeking its dues.

Similarly, he'd been either rejected or lent a mere pittance from other Essosi bankers, and so their last hope had been the Iron Bank. However, a year and a half ago Tyrion had sailed to Braavos, only to return empty-handed. In 'consideration of the realm’s outstanding debt and current political situation,' the Bank believed that betting on the crown’s long-term success was a poor gamble. After all, Brandon the Broken had no army, no claim, and no charisma to speak of. Tyrion’s stories of the “Three-Eyed Raven” and the “Long Night” were met with scepticism at best and derision at worst. In a show of good faith, however, they negotiated with Tyrion to their current debts on hold, interest-free, for a period of five years. That, the Wardens had smiled, was the best they could hope for.

What his Hand did not know was that at the time, the Bank had not been financially stable enough to make such a massive investment in Westeros, nor did they wish to further crimple the kingdoms to reclaim coin they already knew the crown did not have. The Bank’s focus, instead, had been on self-preservation.

When Daenerys Targaryen smashed the Slave Cities, she’d sent Essos into an economic flux. While the Braavosi prided themselves on having no direct dealings with slavers, they had invested heavily in many merchants and magisters that _just happened_ to own slaves. It was unavoidable, really, considering the culture of Essos. But since the gold generated from flesh markets had begun to sharply decline, and being a ‘master’ grew to be an increasingly perilous label, the natural flow of coin in Essos had thus been disrupted.

The Iron Wardens had responded to the potential threat by shifting their focus to collecting any outstanding debts and conserving their coin. The way they saw it, if slavery truly fell, it would take many a wealthy man down with it. To the idealists, this future appealed, to the pragmatists, it was both dangerous and prospective. The latter was because many freedmen of unique skill would seek to start their own business, and for that they’d need capital.

But until they knew for sure what the future would look like, the Wardens decided to bide their time and protect their interests.

This new plan was why the Bank had originally sent Tycho Nestoris to Westeros with orders to reclaim as much of the crown’s debt from Cersei Lannister as he could. He’d been authorized to make subtle allusions of the crown’s dire fate if Cersei refused, and to make false promises of support if she was docile. In truth, after bleeding her dry, the Bank had planned on either supporting Daenerys Targaryen or waiting to approach the victorious party.

What they’d _never_ planned on was garnering the Dragon Queen’s enmity by funding her enemy.

So, when Nestoris,  _instead_  of obeying, had allowed Cersei to re-borrow four million gold dragons to purchase the Golden Company, he betrayed the Bank. The once-shrewd man had either lost his business acumen…or he’d allowed emotions to influence him in ways he never _normally_ would have.

Either way, Nestoris had lost his life, and Tyrion had lost any chance of borrowing more money.

As such, these past two years a rampant, widespread famine had killed millions of smallfolk across the kingdoms. The wars after Robert Baratheon's death were chiefly to blame, but one of the most recent sources had been the remaining Dothraki. Freed of their queen's orders, they had burned and pillaged their way across the Reach and Stormlands for months. They'd returned to Essos, having their fill of Westerosi gold, and sick of the cold climate. They'd carried home tales of the greatest battle in history, and burning the worlds behind their Khal of Khals.

In summation, the ensuing famine had raised the death toll to nearly five times that of Winters past, with only Dorne remaining untouched. Due to Doran Martell’s pacifism and prolific trade-contracts in Essos, the southernmost kingdom had plenty of food and was growing in wealth.

Without the distraction of famine, the new Prince of Dorne, Cletus Yronwood, had turned his attention elsewhere: consolidating his power by addressing what his kingdom most lacked: Water and wood.

Cletus was the grandson of Gwyneth Martell, the late Doran Martell’s matrilineal aunt, and head of House Yronwood. The Yronwoods were the most powerful House in Dorne, with their men making up a fifth of the entire Dornish army. To defeat him in war, many Houses with long, bitter feuds would have to put aside their differences and join forces, and that was too much to ask of them. After Ellaria Sand was captured and the Sand Snakes presumed dead, Cletus had swiftly struck down the other contenders for powe in three successive duels to the death. At first, his power had seemed stable, due to his House and personal popularity, plus his pending his alliance with the Dragon Queen. Yet, after she’d died, and the other Houses had learned that he’d _not only_ voted for Bran the Broken as king, but had remained silent when the North declared independence, his popularity had taken a jarring hit. Since then, unrest had been brewing, and so he’d needed a quick solution to pacify his countrymen.

 _“The trial was a farce,” Prince Cletus stated. “It was a coup, no doubt planned in advance, their king already decided. The foreign sellswords, no doubt bought with Lannister gold, were weakly pretending to seek justice, while the Northern army had the city surrounded. Then, the Lannister turned his own trial into a 'Great' Counsil and ended up as Hand. I was surrounded by Stark allies and relatives. It was a farce,” he repeated, waving an impatient hand. “Fine, then. Let the foreign boy-king play at power. If he survives until Summer, we can always call a parley. For now, let us focus on more_ important _matters.”_

_Before them lay a map depicting the Dornish Marches, the much-disputed lands between Dorne and the Stormlands. Military markers had been set along the Prince's Pass and the Boneway, the two passages that connected Dorne to the Stormlands._

_“The Dornish Marches belong to Dorne, and yet our enemies dared steal them. Well, now the sands of fate have flow, and it is we that have the largest army. Our stores are full and our warriors eager.” He pushed to his feet, presiding over advisors, and lords, and generals. “In contrast, the Storm lords are_ weak _, ever squabbling, and Gendry ‘Baratheon’ is little more than a claimless bastard. Long before the winter harvest their stores will run dry and their armies will starve! Then, when they are at their weakest, Great Dorne will take what is ours!"_

_A rousing cry thundered in the room, their bloodlust stirred and stroked. The prince’s smile could cut through flesh and bone, his victory assured._

_After all, there was no_ quicker _way for the fledgeling ruler to consolidate his power than through conquest_.

At present, the marcher lords of the Stormlands faced a uniquely grim future.

In the rest of the kingdoms, with the famine raging and the snowfall making the lands impassible, there was little time for war. The main source of problems for most Houses was what to do about their starving smallfolk. While some of more generous lords _did_ try to purchase enough food for their starving people, even opening their castles to shelter them, most of them did _not_.

Luckily for the people of the Riverlands, where the famine was at its brutal worst, Lord Edmure Tully one of the former. While lacking in tact and cunning, the Lord of Riverrun had always cared for his people.

Following Arya Stark’s indiscriminate murder of all fifty-one Frey males, the four thousand strong army that Walder Frey had commanded had violently looted Riverrun before splintering into groups. About half of the soldiers had freed Edmure and his family, choosing to bend the knee, while the remaining men had either joined other Houses, returned to their villages, or become bandits out of necessity. A knight of House Haigh, the younger brother to one of Walder Frey’s murder son-in-laws, had wed his brother’s widow and claimed the Twins on behalf of his young nephew. He and a few other nearby Riverland Houses—all of which had lost one or more sons to Arya Stark—were in open rebellion. They had obstructed land access to the Neck, and already small raiding parties were attacking the border towns of the now-foreign North.

Edmure was thus simultaneous enduring famine, insubordinate lords, and bandit-infested lands. He needed men and gold to put his territory to rights, and so a year ago, the Lord of Riverrun had swallowed his pride and petitioned his relatives for aid.

However, Winter snows had made the Vale near impassible, so Robin Arryn couldn’t help him even if he’d wanted to. He did not. Queen Sansa, already weathering her own slew of problems, had cuttingly declared that the North no longer had business 'rescuing' the southern kingdoms, and had all but ordered Edmure to regain control of his lords. King Brandon had simply rejected the plea, and since no one knew that his Lannister Hand had neither money nor men to spare, they assumed Tyrion was purposefully refusing to aid the lands his father had ravaged.

Edmure Tully was thus growing increasingly embittered towards his Stark relatives.

The only beacon of hope during these grim times was the impending Winter Harvest. Across the kingdoms, smallfolk fervently prayed for absolution after years and years of being crushed under highborn games.

What neither highborn nor lowborn foresaw was how _high_ the prices would be this winter. Raiding and black-market trading would become the new norm, with thieves and looters would becoming rich. Ladies would have to sell their jewels for a hunk of bread, and lords would forfeit their steeds. Unlike in famines past, the King had no power to seize and distribute the harvest by force, and the greedy, embittered Reach lords had no pity for the neighbours who had looted their harvest, murdered their people, and pillaged their lands. Before the Targaryen kings came to power, there was never a time the Reach had not been at war, because the rest of the kingdoms had constantly sought to claim their swarths of farmlands. Depending on how things turned out, that seemed to be a likely future this winter.

When Bronn of the Blackwater was asked about what his lords were reporting, he was glib at best. Tyrion did not concern himself with it overmuch, because the Raven told him all was well, and without a _true_ Master of Whispers, the Hand was blind.

The truth was that Bronn’s title of “Lord of Highgarden” was nominal at best. It had taken two years of inter-fighting, politicking, ‘accidental’ deaths, and backroom scheming for the Reach to decided that the _real_ Lord of Highgarden was the late Mace Tyrell’s seventeen-year-old nephew, Horas Redwyne. One moon ago the new High Septon had conducted a secret inauguration ceremony followed by a triple wedding feast. On that day the official Lord of the Reach, Horas Redwyne, had wed the lady Rhea Hightower, while his twin Hobber Redwyne had wed the heiress Jeyne Florent, and their younger sister Desmera Redwyne had wed lord Tanton Fossoway of Cider Hall. After the Winter Harvest was collected, the Hightower fleet would deliver the Reach’s army to siege Highgarden. After they inevitably won—because who could stop them?—Horas would summon his lords to bend the knee, and send mercenaries to kill Bronn of the Blackwater.

Whether it was because Bronn was somehow aware of these secret machinations, or simply because he had a well-developed sense of self-preservation, his Master of Coin had not returned to the Reach once in these past two years. Bronn may be unfit for the titles he’d been granted, but he was well acquainted with the price of _greed_.

Only a couple of fools would think Bronn of the Blackwater could _actually_ become Lord of Highgarden.

Although, speaking of giving positions to unqualified men...

“Enter,” he said, in response to the timid knock at his door.

Maester Samwell entered with an awkward bow. He wore robes, three links, and his habitual hesitant smile. His cheeks were flushed red and sweat dripping down his forehead from the excursion of having climbed the hundreds of steps up to Bran’s chosen chamber. This Grand Maester of his, who boasted two broken oaths and three children, had his arms full of books.

“Good morning, your Grace,” he smiled, using his elbow to push the door closed.

“Samwell,” said the Raven. “You’ve returned.”

Samwell Tarly had been his easiest conquest, the Raven reflected. Sharing blood with Jon Snow was all that was needed to win him Samwell’s trust, and the Raven’s ability to See the past had won his awe. Such a power was a thrilling prospect to a lover of history.

On his part, the Raven owed the boy a debt; he’d brought that final puzzle piece to Winterfell, that slip of paper recording a prince’s ill-fated marriage. The Raven could see everything, but his one weakness was knowing what to look for. Oh, how that long-ago union between dragon and wolf had blessed him, bearing such ripe fruits.

“I have, your grace, alongside more books,” Samwell quipped, making his way to the desk and carefully depositing his prize. Samwell currently split his time between the Citadel and the capital. “Archmaester Ebrose showed me some fascinating histories on greenseers and wargs. These tombs are usually not allowed to leave the catacombs, but since the ink is all but faded away, I offered to transcribe them.” The Raven scanned over the three volumes with interest. “Knowing the importance of my work here, the archmaesters decided to make an exception and allowed me to take them.” He grinned. “Being Grand Maester has its benefits.”

“That is generous of them.”

Samwell nodded in agreement. A bit sheepishly, he admitted, “I was too harsh on them, back during my first stay at the Citadel. Just because they gave me certain less than savoury tasks and didn’t believe me about the Wight Walkers. But, who _would_ believe it, truly? Such an outlandish tale, and without any proof?” he shook his head with a self-disparaging laugh. "I'm fortunate they didn't think me mad."

"Indeed. Who would believe the word of a stranger?"

He nodded ruefully. “They’re all quite brilliant in their fields. I have learned so much from them. Truly, I’m so thankful that they’ve let me continue to forge my chain, although I’ve both a wife and children.”

“They’ve also disregarded your theft of books and your desertion from the Watch,” the Raven pointed out, toneless. “By all accounts, you should have been executed.”

Samwell’s cheer dissipated.

The Raven smiled. “Worry not, Sam; a king’s pardon is no small thing.”

Samwell feebly tried to regain his smile. “Y-yes. I _am_ ever so grateful, your Grace. That you pardoned me—and raised me to this…position.” He looked down at his robes, a half-formed realization shadowing his face. “Oft times it feels like a dream.”

“Who else could be my Grand Maester?”

Probably someone the archmaesters had handpicked, someone with a whole chain who would _know_ to report certain matters to them. By insisting upon Samwell, Brandon the Broken had smashed tradition and threatened the Citadel’s careful web of information. Those old men were not as frail as they seemed, because an institution did not survive for eight thousand years by being foolish. They’d only allowed Samwell’s lessons to continue so they could mine the boy for information on the state of the capital and the king.

Unfortunate, that Samwell had little interest in court politics.

In truth, the archmaesters resented the king and his council, feared the idea of a powerful greenseer on the throne. Since learning this, they had taken to having their conversations on paper, reading and writing the missives with obsessive care—always cognizant that they may be being watched.

That little book of theirs, the “Song of Ice and Fire,” had been their first subtle retaliation. It was shoddily researched, filled with grammatical errors, and so full of holes and illogical leaps that the writers were either stupid or _spiteful_. Take, for example, the way the archmaesters had dared to outright _ignore_ the existence of his Lannister Hand. Tyrion had played too great a role in the years after Robert Baratheon’s death to be so casually dismissed by _any_ man, let alone one who dared call himself a ‘historian.’ Furthermore, no maester worth his chain was so stupid as to offend the Lord of the Westerlands, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King by ignoring his existence. That is, of course, unless they were outright daring Tyrion to retaliate—with full knowledge that he could _not_. That book of theirs was a clear indication on which side of the coming conflict the Citadel would take.

Samwell, while clever with all his books, was idealistic and lacked the political insight necessary to survive in the courts of kings.

_Well, he is only a novice, after all._

“Your praise is too generous, your grace,” Sam whispered, looking down at the tombs in his hands, “There are many men as smart, if not _smarter_ than I at the Citadel. I…I really had no idea. Perhaps the Wall was where I belonged…”

“None of those men found the key to ending greyscale, Samwell Tarly, nor helped stop the Long Night.”

In truth, Samwell could have one day been one of the greatest Grand Maesters that ever lived. But he’d risen too fast, too unconventionally, and his fall would be all the more painful for it.

Still, the words were effective enough, and the maester's eyes brightened. “W-well, yes, I suppose so. A-and really, the Watch isn’t even necessary anymore, is it? It’s a new world, with the White Walkers gone. Everything is different—better. Deserting isn’t what it used to be—it’s not _really_ a curse of the gods.”

The Raven waited.

Samwell gaze was swimming with guilt. “Your Grace, it _is_ a king’s right to pardon deserters, is it not it? Or-or even worse crimes, like a k-kinslayer or…” he hushed. “Even a queenslayer?”

“Sansa and I have already sent note to the Watch to pardon Jon for his desertion,” said the Raven, “And to hide the truth should anyone inquire. To the world at large, he is simply a ranger doing his duty.”

After accompanying the wildlings back to their homes, Jon Snow had dutifully returned to the Wall to commence his punishment. His direwolf, Ghost, had been nowhere to be found. However, Jon had stayed there for a mere month before _very publicly_ deserting. He had walked out with his pack and sword in the middle of the day, declaring loudly that he was leaving to join the Free Folk. No man had tried to stop him, lifting the gate as he ordered, nor had any soul lawfully attempted to kill him as he left.

The Raven thought that fact had only caused Jon more grief.

“But I cannot take away his other crimes,” he finished, “Nor will I force him to return south. Would you deny him the happiness he deserves, Samwell?”

“Of course not,” Sam was quick to refute, shaking his head. “It’s just, I was thinking of the trial, recently, when we named you king. And, forgive me, your grace, you know I am loyal, but…sometimes I think of how I never spoke up for him. How I did not invoke his true name, how it may have changed something if I had. Spared him this punishment, at least. He is my brother as your own, and I love him well." He shook his head, worry scrunting his face. "Jon was not well the last time we spoke. I saw it but did not know what to say. I should have done something, and now I can’t stop worrying that has not…recovered.”

He looked down, unable to meet his gaze, his guilt a tangible thing. Feebly, he asked, “You _are_ sure that he’s… content?”

The Raven contorted his face into a smile, brief as it was. His eyes remained unchanged. “Yes. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

This was, perhaps, both the greatest lie and staunchest truth the Raven had ever told. The fact was that Jon Snow very much wanted to be somewhere else, with some _one_ else, but it was by his blade that such a future was gone. Beyond the Wall, then, was just the least miserable place Jon could think of being.

 _“Ask me in ten years,”_ Tyrion had told him. Perhaps that was all he was living for, now, to make sure it hadn’t been a _mistake_. To put the nagging, consuming _doubt_ to rest. Truly, if there was one man that truly deserved the title “The Broken,” it was Jon Snow.

In the beginning, watching Jon coming to terms with his choices as he wandered that frozen wastelands had left the Raven giddy. He’d sworn long ago that as long as he existed in this prison, the Fire would have _no_ victories—that his avatar would _suffer._

His influence had been cut when Jon crossed the Wall, because, despite the massive hole, the disruptive magic built into that continental divisor was still in effect. That, and the fact that when not in the Raven’s company, his influence tended to fade quickly, assured him that the fog over Jon Snow’s thoughts had long since lifted. But, he'd thought, he no longer needed it.

The game had already ended, and all that was left was to enjoy Jon's misery. 

Initially, watching him had the Raven wishing he could read thoughts, for the dreary boy did not reveal anything aloud. He knew that every moment since he’d returned to Winterfell, every interaction, every foolish decision _must_ be haunting Jon's nightmares, but couldn't confirm it beyond sensing his misery.  Jon’s choice to isolate himself from others made it so that there was no one _to_ talk to, and thus nothing to hear.

Now, Jon Snow’s melancholy had grown tedious, and the Raven rarely looked upon him any longer.

His only concern in that regard was that Jon's woes were causing another problem: How long, the Raven wondered, would he have to wait until the boy obeyed his ingrained, human urges? Without children of the dragon’s blood, the next phase could not begin, but _forcing_ it would simply not be as satisfying as watching Jon finally give in, his guilt and self-loathing battle against his yearning for peace.

Then, later, how devastated he would be when he realized that he’d personally doomed his people. The Raven almost couldn't  _wait._

“Yes,” he repeated, smiling. “Jon is content.”

Samwell face broke into a relieved smile, his guilty easing away. “That’s—that’s good. Thank you, your Grace.”

Their shows of gratitude were always so _earnest_.

“Of course.”

The moment starched with an uneven beat, and Samwell’s smile faltered. The Raven looked away, realizing he hadn’t been controlling his expression.

Samwell cleared his throat after a moment, fidgeting, radiating caution and the beginning of worry.

“So, what do your books say, maester?”

“Oh,” Samwell said, looking down at the tomb. Immediately, he jerked his hands back, realizing he was clutching the cover much too hard.

“Oh, no!” For a few frantic moments, Sam fussed with the, his attention totally engrossed.

Those that met the Raven were always vaguely uncomfortable, instinctively sensing the otherness of him.  Most usually dismissed the sensation as one more oddity of the heart, for they trusted the Raven—of course, they did—and thus paid the reaction no mind. Those same people also unconsciously tried to spend as little time around him as possible, knowing instinctively to avoid a predator’s attention.

Samwell Tarly was the only man that seemed determined to spend time with him, whether because his curiosity overrode his good sense, or because his pity was greater than his fear, the Raven did not know.

“Well, Samwell began, his rekindled excitement overshadowing any hint of discontent. “It has been admittedly a slow process since the ink so faded and some of the terms are so antiquated. Still, what I have managed to read is fascinating, and I couldn’t resist coming to you to discuss some of the claims within. If they’re too outlandish, I thought perhaps to write my own account, provided you’d allow me to use you as a reference, your grace. There are just many things within that ring as only half-truths, in my admittedly limited experience. Take this passage, for example.” He pointed to a line of faded script and read, “‘Rumored to be born of the cursed union between man and Forest Child, ‘Beastlings’ have the ability to enslave the minds of animals. Furthermore, sources derived from folk legend claim that a beastling’s attempt to ‘warg'—as is the common vernacular—into a beast is dependent upon the power of one’s will. Repeated communion results in a vile amalgamation of half-man, half-beast. Some say their magic wanes and waxes with the moon, being at their weakest during a moonless sky.’” Samwell looked up, eyes bright, practically bleeding excitement.

“What is your question?”

“Well, _questions_ , rather,” he corrected sheepishly. The Raven motioned him on. “I’ve already gathered that the last bit is inaccurate, what with the moon and all—” the Raven smiled. “—but I have some inquiries about these former claims. First is it true that skinchangers share ancestry with the Children of the Forest? That the children did— _do_?—exist? Also, the terminology: calling the bond ‘enslavement’ felt odd to me. I spent years around Jon and his direwolf ghost, and their relationship did not seem to be one of force, so what is the true nature of what occurs between a skinchanger and his chosen animal companion. Do they truly blend together into an amalgamation of the two? Oh, and about willpower—what determines an animal’s? Its sex? Its species? Does it randomly vary from creature to creature? Or, perhaps does the book mean the willpower of the _skinchanger_ is what is really important? For example, would a weak-willed man naturally have difficulty ‘warging’ into an animal—any animal—while a strong-willed one would not?”

The Raven took a moment to consider, studying Samwell. For a beat, he thought of the danger of sharing too much information, but then again…he’d already won. Soon, his ten-thousand-year vengeance would begin.

There was nothing they could do about it now, even in the unlikely chance they pieced the truth together. So, mentally dismissing the momentary hesitation, the Raven decided to indulge his maester in full. He did owe Samwell a debt, after all.

“We do share blood with the Children, and yes, they do still exist in the far north.” He ignored how Samwell immediately opened his mouth, eyes burning with new questions.

“As for ‘enslavement,’” the Raven pondered with a certain irony, “Well, it’s not a correct term but also not wholly _incorrect._ While a skinchanger can seize control by force, most often this is unnecessary. Most animals lack the capacity of logical reasoning, advanced thought, and the understanding of ‘self’ that humans possess, and so they tend to simply accept the new presence in their minds and follow directions. Only in rare cases will they resist, such as when at risk of grievous bodily harm. The creature will not, for example, mindlessly walk into a fire or allow themselves to drown, for even the simplest minds have deeply ingrained survival instincts. Furthermore, in cases of _repeated_ contact between two minds a…‘bond,’ you could call it, is formed. They grow attached to each other in a way that is deeper than any natural relationship that humans can form. This is what you’ve seen between Jon and Ghost: Jon raised him since he was a pup, and their minds naturally sought each other out and formed a bond.

“As for the question of willpower,” the Raven continued, “Some beasts can and _do_ resist the intrusion, which is depended on _their_ willpower. Some species are naturally intelligent, almost humanly so, and thus difficult to subjugate. Large, carnivorous mammals and reptiles are at the top of this hierarchy, followed closely by birds of prey. Although, variation _can_ be found even within a species; some animals are just born defiant. On the skinchanger’s side, their power is not depended on will, but on the strength of their blood, and how well they can channel the powers gifted to them.” Stark and Tully blood, for example, seemed uniquely suited to producing powerful skinchangers. “However, regardless of one’s power, enslaving a defiant animal requires constant vigilance and is thus too taxing to bother with. In such cases, most skinchanger will generally just seek out a more complacent specimen, especially considering that using force could damage the creature’s _and_ the skinchanger’s minds. Although,” and here, he smiled. “One could simply cage a stubborn beast when not warging them, so as to use them at one’s pleasure. Taxing, still, but some beasts are too valuable to release. Theoretically, with enough ‘communion’ all creatures will form a bond with the skinchanger, weather because they finally submit of because the power has a component of slavery, I cannot be sure. What is true is that bits of the animal’s essence _will_ become parts of the skinchanger, and vice versa—likely where the ‘half-beast’ idea originates.”

Samwell seemed fascinated, the book before him forgotten. “Do you know what size and diet seems to impact their will power, your grace? Why would that make their minds more ‘human’ like, as you said? Have you come across many difficult beasts, and did their minds differ in specific ways? Say, a wolf versus a lion, what differences might there be?”

And, so they spoke long into the evening about his observations, discussing more details in the book, and comparing notes on the many animals the Raven had touched. He spoke of the differences between skinchangers and greenseers, of how the latter was more powerful, for one, and able to have green dreams: to see into the future.

The Three-Eyed Raven, he said, was a uniquely powerful skinchanger, greenseer, and, beyond the capabilities of either, could see everything. He carried the world's memory. He knew what it meant to be human in a way humans never would.

As they spoke, the Raven noticed as Samwell’s expression clouded over, a nagging worry preoccupying him.

“Is something the matter?”

“Forgive me if I offend, your grace,” he said carefully. “But…with all our discussion about powerful creatures, I couldn’t help but wonder about the…dragon.” He whispered the word, as if saying it aloud would draw the beast’s attention. “You mentioned once, some time ago, that you were seeking him out. But, since I’ve heard nothing, I’ve assumed that you’ve not found him. What are your plans for him when you do? A ‘bond’ perhaps?”

“It,” he corrected absently. “Or ‘they’ if you prefer. I’ve discovered that dragons have no gender.”

“Oh,” Sam blinked, perplex. “Well, alri—wait, _discovered_? So—?”

“I have found the beast,” the Raven confirmed. “Some time ago, in fact. It seems that there truly are exceptions to every rule, because whatever dragons are made of, it makes them uniquely capable of resisting me. Their minds, being neither animal nor human, are unfamiliar to my powers. It is no natural creature, and eventually I’ll discover when and how they were made, and why pure Valyrian blood is of paramount importance. Without it, it seems that no matter how long I wait, no bond will form.”

Samwell stared at him, his eyes blown wide and a hint of terror colouring his shock. The Raven thought perhaps he’d revealed too much.

“It is a dangerous creature,” he explained half-heartedly. “I have to ensure we remain aware of its movements.”

“No—well, yes,” Sam stumbled. “I…you said ‘human,’ your grace. That a dragon’s mind is unfamiliar because it’s neither animal nor…human.” he finished with a whisper. “Perhaps I’m misinterpreting you, but does that mean a-a  _human_ can be—warged?”

 _Ah._ He was tempted to laugh.

“Humans are simply more complicated beasts, maester. I’m sure you’ve studied anatomy.” A beat. “You can be warged, yes.”

“O-oh,” he breathed, and imperceptibly leaned away.

"In very rare cases."

"Oh?" A bit hopefully.

“There was a man named Wylis at Winterfell. He was a simpleton and could only say the word ‘Hodor.’ No one knew what it meant, and it became what we called him. When I was escaping to the North, there were times when I needed to warg into him to survive. He perished saving my life. He was a _good_ man.”

Brandon had often grown bored during the long journey, and sometimes he would entertain himself by seeing what he could make Hodor do. Remembering it greatly amused the Raven, and he wondered if Brandon Stark now understood the true horror he’d inflicted.

"I remember him," Sam whispered. "We met on the road. When you crossed the Wall."

"Ah, yes."

Silence.

“Does that disturb you?” he finally asked the maester, who seemed a little green.

Samwell hesitated too long, so his eventual, “No, your grace,” was not delivered with a shred of credibility.

“Take comfort, for Hodor may have been human, but his mind was broken long ago.”

A long hesitation, as if he didn't want to ask, but couldn't help himself. “Then, if a mind is hale…?”

“A human would know if a skinchanger attempted it.” Another beat. “And so it is forbidden.”

To warg a human mind without breaking it, the individual would have to be in intense mental turmoil. Rage or grief were best, with the combination making it all too easy to take control. In such cases, a human would not noticed the intrusion, and, afterwards, the individual would either accept their actions as a moment of weakness...

Or they would deny it all to protect their sanity.

The Raven smiled. “Do you have any more questions?”


	4. Declared the Queen

The little girl looked about five years old. She was in the form of a small waif, her skin pale, her eyes flickering, and her moonglow hair the only cover she had against the cold. A gentle snowfall fell around her, getting tangled in her hair, building upon her shoulders, slowly engulfing her form. The child sat against a warm red door that the ice could not touch, the warm light peaking underneath was an alluring promise. She hugged herself, her small body clutched within fragile arms, as close to that sliver of hope as she could get.

There was no knob on this portal, for it opened only outwards. Everyone exited, eventually, but rarely could they go back in.

She’d learned this by now: her nails were broken from clawing into the wood. Her cheek, pressed against the carvings, was imprinted with red, angry patterns. Frozen tears made glittering tracks down her cheek and quivered on her cracked lips like little captured stars.

She raised one small, shaking hand and tapped on the door. Meek, weary little sounds, her will all but gone—but not yet broken. Not _yet_ ready for a deal.

_Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap._

The portal remained a silent sentry, her tears continued to freeze, and the snow slowly rose higher.

He’d been searching for her for so long, that having succeeded filled him with a particular kind of sorrow. Ever since his foolish avatar had ended her life, he’d hunted for her prison, finding snares and illusions along the way.

His brother’s traps were difficult for him; a human, no matter their form, could not escape alone.

Thus, he leaned out the window he’d made, and gently said, “That’s not the right way.”

She stilled. Slowly, her face tipped back, and she squinted up at him as if she’d never before seen a living soul. The window was high, high up on the bleached brick, and his face and form were obscured by the brilliant light within. In her world of icy darkness, he would only a blur of red and white.

“There’s a window,” she murmured to herself, her voice hoarse from disuse. “A window.”

She pushed slowly, painfully to her feet, brushing off the piles of snow without a thought. Her muscles were weak from long disuse, and she wavered, nearly falling, and only just managed to catch herself against the door. Carefully, using her hands as guide, she walked along the wall, the snow freezing solid under the steps. She was a newborn fawn on unsteady legs, and inch by inch, she made her way to the window, her eyes never straying.

He pushed himself up and slowly learned over the opening. The light moved with him, illuminating the dead lands, but against the charred-bone sky, he was only a ghostly imprint. She squinted, trying to capture his image, and she raised a hand to shade her face as if she were looking up into the sun.

“Help me,” she pleaded, reaching up with a shaking hand, trying to find purchase on the wall.

It was no use—he was so, so high above her: she would never be able to reach him. The wall was smooth and made of slick stone, making climbing impossible. And in that barren, icy wasteland, not even a shrub grew. There was no way she could get to him alone. “Please. I need to go back.”

“You can’t go back,” he said, again so gently. “But you can’t stay here, either.”

“Please!” she called, ignoring his words, a tiny child left out in the cold. “Please, help me. Throw me a rope—a sheet. _Anything_ ,” she whimpered. “I need to go inside, but no one _answers_ when I knock.” Her voice hiccupped in a desperate sob, and the sky obeyed. Fat globs of snow began to rain down, turning a light snowfall into an obscure tide. The wind picked up, its biting chill stinging him. The light within flickered.

“How about this?” he said, with an odd mix of pride—to see the wrath of her tempest—and sorrow—knowing he was much too late. “Tell me what’s so important in here, and I might help you.”

Her sobs cut off and the wind died down to a murmur. The snow, which had been accumulating on her shoulders and dancing on her lashes, cut back to a hesitant flutter. She didn’t seem to notice any of it, only blinking until the flakes fell away.

“I…” she hesitated. “I need to go back.”

“Why?” he patiently asked.

A long, pregnant pause. The little girl’s eyes grew hazy with half-known memories. “Because I did a bad thing.”

Her voice quivered, and the earth under her feet seemed to tremble.

“What did you do?” he asked, so softly. The rumbling died, and her eyes once more flickered between colours.

The girl shook her head, curling her hands into fists. “I—I can’t tell you…” she looked away, just for a heartbeat, but couldn’t bear to keep the window out of her gaze. She thrust back her shoulders. “But it wasn’t my fault.”

“No?” he asked without condescension; a warm invitation to continue.

“No.” She relaxed her stance, her gaze resolute. “I was angry, that’s true. And—sad, too, although no one cared about that,” she whispered, sadly. “No one who was left cared about _me_ , it was all a lie to use me and then throw me away!” It began to snow again, and the wind picked up, sending flurries to beat against the wall.

This time, she seemed to notice, and looked around. The wind faded, but the snow grew heavier, and when a flake landed on her arm. She stared at it, muddled.

It did not melt.

And suddenly the little girl was gone, and a maiden was in her place, a youth on the cusp of womanhood.

“I _was_ angry,” she repeated, shaking off the snow. “But I’ve been angry before. I’ve suffered before. But I’ve never…I _would_ never do what I did. It couldn’t have been me.”

He wondered then, if she truly knew the truth—or if her belief in herself was simply the last thing she had to hold on to. Either way, it was how she’d held on for this long, how she was still in command. He felt a petty spike of vindication, knowing how irritated his brother must be, and wondered how many times he’d failed. She’d managed to fend off the snow for so long, all by herself, her flicking eyes bespoke of her battle for dominance.

Millenia ago, her strength of will was what had first drawn his attention. He’d coveted, she’d fought, and the tragedy had begun.

“What happened?” he asked again, voice hoarse.

Once more she hesitated, squinting up at him, trying to make out his features. Her eyes were cold, the flickering of colours slower now, and swamped with mistrustful. She lowered her arms at her sides, her body a jagged line, her lips pressed together tightly.

“I won’t judge,” he promised softly, pained to see that look upon her face.

“You will,” she grimly promised.

He smiled at that, “I won’t. I am many things, but a hypocrite is not one of them. I’ve done many, many ‘bad’ things. More have been done in my name.” He learned out further, a whispered secret. “The worst of my sins was so long ago it’s become a myth. You see, I fought with my brother. I was so angry at him for stealing my prize, and I wanted him gone. I didn’t care for the _consequences_ : impulsivity is one of my faults. And so I pushed him; I pushed him, and he fell, and the earth cracked from the impact. He can never come home again, my brother, and it is all my fault. His wrath lasted a generation. Millions perished and entire cultures went extinct.” A rueful smile. “All because I couldn’t let go of something that never wanted to be mine.” He tilted his head, and, despite knowing it was pointless, softly asked, “Do you remember?”

She stared up at him, brows furrowed helplessly. “I…don't know you…do I?”

The light around him dimmed just enough for her to see a sad smile grace his features. He pulled back into the window with a self-deprecating laugh. “No. No, you don’t.” He shook his head. “But, I hope now you’ll believe me when I say that no matter what you’ve done, I will not pass judgment. Your sins could never exceed my own.”

She looked up at him for a long time, the snow falling quietly, the wind a wary murmur against him.

“I think I grew to hate them,” she admitted softly. “ _Not_ the nameless, but… the named, yes. No matter what I did, it still wasn’t enough. No matter what I sacrificed, they acted as if it was their _due._ I know it was my duty when I chose queenship, and I accepted animosity from those that did not know me. I forgave how they refused to give one word of-of genuine _thanks_ , show one ounce of _respect,_ and treated me as an _imposition_ ,” she spat. “Even after I proved myself, even after I sacrificed, I was betrayed! Even the one I trusted the _most_ …just wanted to _take_ ,” she said painfully, and the wind howled. “I lost so much, and he didn’t offer one word of comfort, not even a— _hug_ ,” her voice broke. “And it hurt. It hurt so much, but no one cared. And I grew so _angry_.”

She looked up, eyes haunted, wind screaming. “We’d won the city— _I’d_ won. The bells of surrender rang, and I was supposed to stop, I knew I was… but it wasn’t enough. I was still so _angry_! I wanted Cersei Lannister to _burn_ , I wanted to hear her scream for mercy! What if she escaped, I thought—what if she got _away_?! My bloodlust painted the world red and it urged me to fly—fly!—and so I _did_. I set out for the castle, consequences be _damned_ , knowing she had to die…and that’s the last thing I remember,” she whispered, shivering. The earth rumbled terribly. “I blinked and…and the city was gone. Men, women, and children were all gone!” The snow so heavy it was blinding, the wind biting in intensity. She shook her head desperately, throwing the snow around her into a fury. “That’s not who I am! I am not a butcher. I am not _mad_!” she screamed to the gods, striking the wall with heavy firsts. “I have to go back and _prove it_!”

The wind howled, the snow a blinding sheet, and the earth rumbled. Spiderwebs of ice crept up the wall, seeking to consume the light within. They melted, and reformed, and melted again—an eternal war.

Witnessing the storm, he mourned her stolen fate. She would have been the brightest flame. He’d wished to watch her bathe the realms in light, to purify it by the thousands, to burn away the old and remake it in his name. The world would have worshipped the vicious queen loved by a god.

Their avatar of vengeance. His Bride of Fire.

But… it was not to be.

Her body had already been stolen from him, her pierced heart replaced with frozen fire. The ice had already taken root, crafting her into the perfect host.

She only had two paths left to her; death or conquest.

“Did you know that events tend to happen in threes?” he asked. His tone was even-tempered, but it still managed to cut through the howling wind. "This is his second attempt."

“I don’t care about your stories!” she snapped, the tempest beating against the wall. “You said you would help me! I want to _leave_!”

Her eyes were icy blue now, only a faint ring of violet still valiantly fighting. He couldn’t allow her inside, but neither could he let stay _here_. If she was in this desperate state when the Raven came, she would make a deal with him—and lose herself completely.

A human that touched death would always carry a part of it with them.

“Gifts,” he continued quietly, ignoring her scream of frustration. “Should also be given in threes. I have given you two already: first was the fire, when you were chosen to inherit; and then it was the dreams, on the day of your rebirth. But,” he admitted. “Those were selfish gifts; the first you did not want, and the second you could not reject. Let this last one make amends.”

Ignoring her angry demands, he took a moment to grieve…

And then blew a ribbon of starlight into the storm.

Her scream of agony reverberating across time and space. She collapsed back into the snow: poisoned ichor bled from her eyes, cold corruption spilled from her mouth. It leached from her, drop by agonizing drop, and returned to the barren ground.

In the distance, a great being’s attention swung towards them. A surge of rage collided with him, forcing him backwards, and the gap in the wall began to fill, brick by livid brick.

_Too late, brother._

“What did you do to me?” she sobbed, panting, her body still convulsing. “What did—”

A dragon’s roar suddenly pierced the barren lands. For the first time, she jerked her gaze from the wall, everything forgotten.

“Drogon,” she whispered, her hazy gaze clearing, the icy blue being pushed back. She looked around, blinking as if she’d just awoken. The snow stopped. The wind died. The cry came again, weaker, a child’s desperate plea. The rattling of massive chains echoed in the wasteland.

The beast had been crying for her for an eon, but she hadn’t been able to hear him.

She pushed to her feet and took one halting step into the darkness. The fearful rumbling of the earth grew greater, and she hesitated.

“You have already crossed a desert. Is a tundra so frightening?”

“I’m not frightened,” she denied, bristling. She clutched a fist over her chest, glancing back at the red door, so warm and inviting, and then back out into the lonely wasteland. “I only…”

She was still thinking the vengeance beyond the door, her bloodlust warring with a mother’s instinct. She may be lost to him now, but the duality of her nature would never change.

“Do you remember your final vision in the House of the Undying?” he asked her, the gap in the wall now the size of a fist. “After leaving the throne room, you crossed the Wall. What did you find?”

Slowly, a sad, dawning comprehension bled into her gaze. “A warm tent at the heart of a blizzard, and Drogo and Rhaego waiting for me. I wondered…if I was in the Night Lands. If I had died.” A melancholy exhale. “I never wanted to leave.”

“But you did.”

“It was a lie,” she murmured, staring at the door in broken-hearted anguish. “An illusion of dark magic crafted to enslave me.” In the distance, the dragon called. “But this is different. That door is not a lie. I’ve met someone who has crossed back.” This was delivered with bitter sorrow.  “I know it’s possible.”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” he told her. _You are not the same._ “You would have to make a deal.”

“A deal,” she echoed. “A… contract?” Then, with a wisdom beyond her years, she murmured. “The final vision warned of _slavery_.”

It was not a question, so he did not answer.

“Never,” she grimly declared, and the blue left her eyes completely. “All I have left is my freedom.”

The dragon roared.

“Not all,” he said.

Resolve hardened her features; the choice made.

With one last bitter glance at the door, she turned her back to it—and to him. Slowly, with cautious care, she stepped away from the light. As if in encouragement, the clouds parted and revealed a long-hidden moon, its light shining gently upon her path. Suddenly, the wasteland was not so uninviting: its crystal beauty was a breathtaking sight.

With growing confidence, she walked further, following her dragon’s cries. She was a woman grown now, no longer a maid.

She was the Breaker of Chains.

_You’ve never needed a door, Daenerys._

As she walked, the wind played through her hair, twisting it into a long, intricate braid of moonlight. Tiny bells were twined within, their chimes resonating through the frozen lands. A gown of midnight ice wove itself around her, draping elegant limbs and hugging proud shoulders. A chain of ice, three dragons at its head, bloomed across her chest. Bands of frosted roses decorated her arms and wrists while a frozen dragon curled around her waist. Last to form was one small, familiar ring—the token of a mother’s love.

“Don’t stop,” he warned, the gap almost gone. “No matter how far the journey, you cannot stop. Not even for a moment.”

_Now wake up, Stormborn._

She looked over her shoulder; her skin was a smooth, brilliant azure, and her eyes were twin amethyst framed by snowflakes. Upon her head, delicate points had grown: the Crown of Night.

Her whispered “thank you” came to him on a gentle breeze. The crack in the veil closed with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the showrunners want to pretend like their _completely show-created Qarth scenes_ were foreshadowing Dany's fate, then let's not forget that her vision ended with Dany escaping "the tent" and finding her true enemy.


End file.
